


All I Know About the Rain

by Provocatrixxx



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Kissing, Post-Riechenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-14
Updated: 2013-03-14
Packaged: 2017-12-05 06:15:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/719809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Provocatrixxx/pseuds/Provocatrixxx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He follows the line of her tears with the tips of his fingers, a thousand shaky lines that have cut through her make-up, sticky where they have dried on her skin. She is soft and warm and tiny, everything that Sherlock was not, and he finds comfort in it, pulls her close again and watches her.</i>
</p><p>After the funeral, they seek comfort in each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All I Know About the Rain

**Author's Note:**

> I had a sad, so I wrote John/Molly comfort kissing.
> 
> Thank you to the lovely antidiogenes people for fixing me!

She is tiny huddled under his jacket, tiny and pale and her face streaked with salt-water tears. John guides her up the stairs as carefully as he can, rests his hand in the small of her back and leads her to the sofa. There is still a dent in the shape of Sherlock’s head in the arm, and Molly brushes her tiny hand across it as though she knows. She slumps down onto the sofa and curls her legs under her, scrubbing her hands over her face.

“Tea?” John asks, and hurries to the kitchen before she can answer. For the three minutes it takes the kettle to boil, John sinks to his knees and falls utterly to pieces.

He uses the biggest mugs he can find, steeping the tea and adding more milk than is strictly necessary. The routine soothes him, and by the time he lifts the two mugs, he is back to where he was three hours before. Before the funeral. Before the rain. Before the final, distressingly quiet act of Sherlock’s life.

“We don’t have any sugar,” he says as he walks over to the sofa, hands her the mug in his right hand and watches her curl her fingers around it.

“It’s fine,” she says, managing a weak smile. It slides off her face like the rainwater.

There is nothing left to say, so they sit beside each other in silence, listening to the rain. The weather, at least, had been suitably dramatic. The flat is cold now. Dark with the silences in all the places that John had longed for them before. Molly is still wrapped up in his coat, her knees young and breakable-looking, tights stretched thin over bone.

“It doesn’t feel like the end,” she says slowly.

“It is the end.” It has to be. John aches for the future that is lost to them now, for the chases and the cases that neither of them will see. “There’s nothing more, Molly. Not now.”

She cries again at that, silent little tears that are somehow more painful than the great gasping sobs that John is used to. He gives her a minute to get herself back under control, but the tears do not seem to want to stop.

Molly’s waist is warm under the coat, and John maneuvers her gently, lies down on his back and pulls her down with him until her head is tucked under his chin and the sodden coat falls over both of them. He can feel her shaking breaths, the way her sorry heart beats in time with his own. John strokes her hair, slides his hand under the coat and holds her to him tightly. If she feels his tears where they fall from his cheeks onto her own, she doesn’t complain.

They lie like that until the sun goes down, the flat fading through grey and gradually into orange with the streetlights. Molly stops crying, and John stops too, and they lie on the sofa listening to each other breathe.

“I’m glad you came,” John tells her and his voice sounds loud and broken.

“I couldn’t have missed it,” she tells him, shifting until she gets her knees under her, until she can raise her head and look him in the eye. He realises now how strong she is, that she loved Sherlock just as much as he did and it hurts all over again. “I wanted to see you.” She says, and he’s not sure what she means by it.

He follows the line of her tears with the tips of his fingers, a thousand shaky lines that have cut through her make-up, sticky where they have dried on her skin. She is soft and warm and tiny, everything that Sherlock was not, and he finds comfort in it, pulls her close again and watches her.

Perhaps she moves first, or maybe he does. Perhaps it doesn’t matter at all, but then their lips are pressed together softly and there is warmth and gentleness and too much salt. Her eyes are closed, and John closes his as well, feeling her breath against his own when she pulls away.

“Don’t,” he murmurs and tangles his hands into her hair. She goes back to him, leans in and kisses him again, soft and slow and sweet. John lets his lips part just a little, catches her lower lip with his own and sucks lightly. It is too much and not enough all at once, and Molly goes soft above him, sucks in a shaking breath and opens her mouth.

She tastes of warmth and lip balm and John licks into her mouth slowly, stroking her lips with his tongue and swallowing her gentle sigh. Molly’s arms slide up to rest beside his head and then she is kissing back, her tongue hesitant and sweet, sliding against his own. John curls his other arm tightly against her back, needing to anchor them both, hold them in this space and this moment.

They kiss until they are warm with it, as though each can draw life-blood from the other, and John tugs the throw down from the sofa’s back and wraps them both in it, tucking it around Molly’s shoulders before drawing her down to kiss her again. She is pliable now, her hair soft and smooth around him, fitting into all the spaces where he is not and filling them with her warmth.

“Stay,” he whispers, and she smiles at him, wriggling down until she can lay her head down on his chest.

That night, John dreams of drowning.


End file.
